


Months of Silence

by lokiarrty



Series: In Time [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, His Last Vow Spoilers, Infidelity, M/M, Pining, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Sexual Content, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, before their reunion at Christmas, takes place during the months john and mary spent apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:12:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokiarrty/pseuds/lokiarrty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John learns that Mary isn't who he thought she was, he moves back into 221b.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Months of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta, Cassi, also known as holmeshearse on tumblr, who helped me along with this fic.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.

 

John moved back into 221b after that night, the night everything changed. He thought he had found normal, safe, reliable, a constant, something to ground him in this crazy messed up world; but instead he found another hurricane. He was stuck in the middle, surrounded by it, forever trapped in the storm. 

She wasn’t supposed to be like that. She wasn’t supposed to be a hurricane like Sherlock had been. He knew what happened when he got caught in Sherlock’s storm the last time. Sherlock had entered his mind, brought danger and adrenaline and life, and then he left, leaving nothing but wreckage in his wake. Losing Sherlock had left him with nothing but broken homes and shattered windows, and he had done everything he could to put the pieces back. Mary had helped put them back; Mary had been the rescue team fixing the damage Sherlock had made. Mary was supposed to keep their new home safe, and normal, not wreck is all over again, and that was exactly what she had done. She had helped rebuild him just to knock him back down. 

John felt he couldn’t get a break. Every decision he made seemed to bring him back to the same place every time. Going to war had left him as an empty shell with a wounded shoulder. Meeting Sherlock had left him the same but that time with a wounded heart. Now it was his mind that was in shambles. Everything he knew about the love of his life was wrong, a lie, an illusion. Mary wasn’t even her real name. She claimed to love him, but could he really believe that, could he ever believe anything that came out of her mouth again. If his psychiatrist thought he had trust issues then, what would she say now? Why couldn’t he have fallen in love with someone normal?

Why?

“Because you chose her,” The words Sherlock had said were ringing in his ears. Alone in 221b and alone with his thoughts, those words continued to repeat over and over. Because you chose her… _chose_ her? How was this his fault? He didn’t choose this, he didn’t want this. How could he have chosen her if he hadn’t even known her?

He gripped tightly to the USB drive she had given him. On it was the information to learn everything he could about her past, to learn everything about _her_ , yet he couldn’t bring himself to read the contents. He still loved Mary… at least he felt like he did. She was carrying his child for god’s sakes. She had made him happy, hadn’t she? Or was that just a mirage, created so that she could hide herself more easily from those she was running from. 

John pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Why did his life have to be so fucked up. Why couldn’t he just be normal, live a normal life, have a normal wife and best friend. 

_Because you’re just as much an addict as Sherlock is_ , his mind provided. 

He grunted and threw the USB as hard as he could against Sherlock’s leather chair that sat across from him. He stared at it for a long while trying to calm himself, and remembered that he was alone; Alone because he couldn’t bring himself to look at his wife, and because his best friend was in the hospital. He was having a hard time looking at Sherlock too, not to mention in the mirror. He was so angry. He stood up to make a cup of tea and while the kettle boiled he remembered how angry he was, how powerless he felt, how incapable he‘d been, and how weak he was becoming. He picked up the tea cup and launched it at the closed door of the kitchen. It shattered across the door falling to pieces on the floor. The noise reminded him that he was alone. Funny how that’s how he always ended up. He ran his hand over his face and through his hair, and took in a rough breath. 

How had he let his life come to this?

 

 

\---

 

 

“How do you feel,” John asked. 

Sherlock turned his head to face him and let out a pained laugh. He was covered in wires and he looked as pale as the medical sheets he laid on. Seeing him lying on a thin mattress in the hospital, put there by his own wife, was doing nothing to help his anger. 

“I’ve been worse,” He said with a shrug. His face suddenly became serious, “What about you?”

John didn’t answer, instead he looked away and Sherlock didn’t push. 

“I’m going to help her,” Sherlock said after a long silence.

“Why?” John had meant to hide the anger he felt, but his voice gave it away.

“Because she loves -”

“Don’t,” John rubbed his eyebrows with his fingers, “Don’t pretend to be sentimental.”

They sat in silence again while John did everything he could to calm himself down. 

“I don’t,” John tried. His voice in a ruff whisper, “I can’t talk about that right now.”

“Then when,” Sherlock asked, anger rising in his own voice. 

“When you don’t look like evidence of what she is,”

“And what’s that,”

“The person who shot my best friend,” John yelled. 

A passing nurse stared daggers at him and he went back to rubbing his forehead with his hand. 

Sherlock stared down at him, his all observing eyes taking everything in. John could feel his eyes on him, but he kept his own shut. Thinking about his liar of a wife was getting him riled up again, and even worse was that Sherlock was defending her, even after she had shot him.

“You’re back home-” Sherlock caught himself and cleared his throat, “at 221b?”

John finally met his eyes and nodded. 

“Couldn’t exactly stay at the other place. I could barely even pick up my clothes from there without wanting to flip every table,” He said with a smile even though he was anything but happy.

“Do people actually flip tables when they’re angry?” Sherlock inquired.

“I kicked a fucking chair, Sherlock; I’m sure people flip tables,”

That got him a small laugh from Sherlock before he grimaced from the pain. 

John automatically sat up and checked Sherlock’s equipment to find that the morphine levels were as low as they could go without being completely shut off.

“No wonder you’re in pain,” John said moving to fix it.

“Leave it,” Sherlock said grabbing John’s wrist, “I can’t think when it’s too high.”

John stared at him in disbelief. “God damn it Sherlock, this isn’t- you shouldn’t- you’re in pain for fucks sake.” 

“Leave it,” Sherlock commanded. 

John sat back in the chair, scrubbing his hand over his face for what felt like the millionth time.

“This is so fucked up,” John sighed.

 

\---

 

 

By the time Sherlock came back to the flat it was early October. He didn’t take any new cases and devoted all his time to learning as much as he could about Charles Augustus Magnusson. John helped him when he could and played nurse for the time being, making sure Sherlock ate, and slept, and didn’t go back to drugs; though it seemed Sherlock hadn’t been lying when he said he had been taking them just to get Magnusson‘s attention. He didn’t show any signs of going back to them. So instead John looked for signs of withdrawal. He never saw any. 

They fell back to their normal routine, or as normal a routine they ever seemed to have. Sherlock lead, John followed. They went to those who had worked for Magnusson, those who had been blackmailed by him, and those who claimed to have information on him. John was happy for the distraction, but he never truly forgot that they weren’t doing this just to help those Magnusson had hurt before, but for his wife. He still wasn’t exactly happy about that, and still hadn’t forgiven her for lying to him, betraying him. He also hadn’t read the USB drive that sat in a drawer on the side of his bed next to his wedding ring.

 

There was a nagging sensation in the back of John’s mind every time he went to sleep, and in the darkness of his old room he was left to his thoughts, and when he did find sleep he was succumbed by nightmares. When he tossed and turned to terrors of bleeding out in Afghanistan, or Sherlock plummeting to his death, or the newest addition to his nightmares of Mary killing his best friend, he would awake to the sound of Sherlock playing the violin. 

He wasn’t sure if it was just coincidence or if Sherlock was doing it on purpose. He hoped it was the latter, but at the same time, he didn’t know what he should do with that information if it was. Instead he let the sounds of Sherlock’s violin sooth him back into a dreamless sleep. 

 

 

 ---

 

Sherlock and John moved around the flat as if there had been no break in between since the last time they had inhabited the space together. Sherlock relished in this feeling. He had missed John taking up space in the messy flat, fluttering about, tidying up, making tea, reading in his chair (the chair he couldn’t bear to look at without him in it). It hadn’t been the same without him and now that he was back Sherlock was counting down the days as if it were a timer on a bomb that John would leave their home once more. 

No matter how angry John was at Mary for lying to him, there was no denying that they were good for each other. They clicked together like John and Sherlock had (do), but she had more. She could provide the affection that Sherlock was never allowed to. She was loving and caring and even had the element of danger he knew John was so attracted to. It was as if she had been made for him even if John hadn’t known at first. 

As hard as it was for Sherlock to do, he had to let John go and focus on keeping him safe and happy, and that picture didn’t include him. Mary was better for him. Once John let go of his anger and forgave her, he’d see it too. So now Sherlock had two tasks. Extract all information Magnusson had on Mary Morstan Watson _and_  get her back together with John. 

The first was doable. 

The second was… necessary. 

While John was out picking up groceries Sherlock went up into his room. First things first: John could not read the contents of the USB drive. That was easy. He opened the drawer of John’s nightstand and picked up the small item with A.G.R.A. written in black marker across the side.

He replaced it with one that looked identical with corrupted files. He didn’t think John would read it, but if he did he couldn’t risk him learning her past. John would never let it go if he did. He would dwell on her nature back then and not on who she was now. She had changed. She was the woman John had fallen in love with, Sherlock had seen that. She deserved a second chance because she was like Sherlock. They had shady pasts, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t find redemption. It just happened to be a coincidence that they’d both find it in John. 

Sherlock began to wonder if all the little quirks John had come to adore about Mary were real. Her accent surely wasn’t. He wondered if John liked the way she spoke or the way she moved. Would he have fallen in love with her back then, or was her façade so great that that was what he loved.

No.

Stop.

Mary would do anything to protect John that was why she had lied. John loved Mary because she helped him and cared for him when Sherlock was gone. That wasn’t a lie. She had done it because she cared (cares). John wasn’t wrong to pick her. He couldn’t have picked someone who cared more for him then if he had picked Sherlock himself. He and Mary were the same in that way as well; that they would do anything for John Watson. The most logical thing to do then was to give John what and who would make him the happiest, and that was Mary. John, no matter how much he loved adrenaline, also wanted domesticity, and he could only have that with Mary and their child. 

Switching the USB drive was easy. 

Losing John again would not be.

But he had him for now, and unlike the last time, he would cherish his time with him.

Sherlock would never admit it, but he had missed John more than he missed anyone else while they spent those two years apart. He missed him more than he missed cocaine. He missed him even when they had been reunited because no matter how much John claimed that nothing would change, everything had. Sherlock had learned what it was like to be alone, to yearn, to want. It had not been sated when he came back. John was still gone, and he still yearned. No matter how much John claimed that nothing would change, Sherlock had. 

 

 

\---

 

 

John rested his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. 

“What more have you got?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. Instead he catalogued the feeling of John’s warm sure hand pressed against his back into John’s space of his mind palace. It looked like the room that the cabby was shot in, and he was full to the brim with everything he had saved about John. The doors seemed like they might burst open with how much data he had saved about the man. 

“Fine, I get it, you want to do your show offy thing,” He heard John say; “I’ll make us some tea then.”

John left. 

He wished John wouldn’t leave.

 

\---

 

John looked up from the paper to see Sherlock staring at him. At first he thought that Sherlock might have seen something interesting on the front page of the paper, so he flipped it over and scanned it for any intriguing news. He didn’t find anything and when he looked up again, he realized Sherlock was staring at him. He looked back. He didn’t look away until he saw it. 

Pain.

 

\---

 

Sherlock wondered if things would have gone differently had he never lied to John about being dead for two years. He told John it was because he was afraid he might let something out, tell someone he was alive, but in truth, letting John think he was dead once was enough. So he let him think he was dead until he knew for sure he wouldn’t die again out there. 

Had he been selfish or selfless, Sherlock always had a hard time telling the difference. 

 

 

\--- 

 

 

“That was brilliant, absolutely brilliant,” John said shaking his head as they walked back into the flat.

They had just help catch a particularly clever serial killer that the police had been trailing for the past three months. Sherlock had been on the case for six hours before he solved it and directed them to the suspect with a flurry of deductions and a hint of arrogance. It had taken five calls, fifteen texts, and a visit from Lestrade for Sherlock to agree to help on the case. Sherlock’s full attention was on Magnusson but John’s encouraging words had convinced him that a small break from the man might help.

“I missed that,” Sherlock said with a dazzling smile directed toward John, “Thank you.”

That caught John by surprise.

“For what?” John asked unable to hide his own smile.

“I forgot there was more than just Magnusson, and you were right. I needed a break from that. I forgot how much fun serial killers could be,” Sherlock said with excitement. The kind that made him look like a little kid on Christmas. John found it endearing.

“You know, coming from anyone else that would sound weird,” John said with a laugh.

“Everyone else is boring,” Sherlock said pointedly.

“I agree,” John said meeting Sherlock’s eyes. 

They seemed to be caught in each other‘s stare. This wasn’t the first time they had found themselves like this. Even before Sherlock had taken the fall, even when he had come back, even when John had gotten married, they would sometimes find themselves staring at each other with something like want in their eyes. Electricity would spark between them and they’d be stuck in a limbo of should I, shouldn’t I. It always ended the same, one would look away, clear their throat, make a stupid comment about whether the other was hungry or wanted tea, and then the moment was broken. But now John stared at him and didn’t pull away.

Before Sherlock had fallen, he had assumed Sherlock didn’t want to move further than friends. But he wasn’t so sure about that anymore. On more than one occasion he had caught Sherlock looking at him longingly, there was no other way to describe it. He had come to the conclusion that during their years of separation Sherlock had missed him as much as he had missed Sherlock, and because of this it caused a yearning in Sherlock he could have never had had he not known what it was like to lose someone he cared about. 

Had Sherlock lost him, though? Of course it looked like he had, after he had married Mary.

But John didn’t have Mary any more, and yet Sherlock still looked at him with yearning eyes. 

John closed the gap between himself and Sherlock, grabbing Sherlock’s collar pressing their lips together. Sherlock made a soft noise that sounded similar to a whimper and melted against John, his hands finding their way to his hips. 

John moved them over to Sherlock’s bedroom where they collapsed on the bed in a tangle of limbs and lips. 

“John wait,” Sherlock begged.

John pulled off slightly to meet Sherlock’s eyes; there was nothing but sadness in them.

“What about Mary,” Sherlock seemed to force himself to say it.

John stared down at him watching as this so called “detached” man had every emotion on display. Longing, hurt, sadness, all of it in his eyes and John knew Sherlock had never seen this as an outcome. 

“What about her?” John said leaning back in to kiss Sherlock. He poured how he felt into that kiss and hoped Sherlock would get the message: _I want you. Only you._

Sherlock didn’t speak again but to say John’s name. Their clothes found a home scattered across the floor and they pressed together, grasping and moaning and pouring every feeling they had ever repressed into their touch. 

If John had ever made love before than he didn’t know what to call this, because this was far more than the act of making love; This was built from loss and longing and death and life. Each kiss, each touch, each moan, was made as if it were their last and when John stretched Sherlock’s entrance with lubed fingers and pressed into him with his straining cock, their eyes meeting, he knew Sherlock felt the same. Each thrust caused tiny gasps to escape Sherlock’s mouth, their eyes locked together, watching each other come apart, come together, stretch them, bind them. They fit like puzzle pieces and moved as if their body’s had known each other from well before they had ever touched, and when he felt Sherlock spasm beneath him with his head thrown back, it was by far the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. The noise that Sherlock made was intoxicating and John’s head fell into the curve of Sherlock’s neck as he came apart inside him. During the white noise of his orgasm, he thought he might have heard a word. 

"Finally."

 

\---

 

 

He hadn’t meant to say it, but that was how he felt. There were so many times when he thought this might happen, but he never let himself think farther than that. Of course that could never happen, John didn’t feel that way about him, but it had happened and John did feel that way. It had happened and Sherlock didn’t feel like he was living with his unrequited love anymore. It had happened, they had joined, they had made love.

John was still inside him and it was perfect… except it wasn’t. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to give John up. But how could Sherlock have known that this would happen? How could he resist the temptation when it was right there for the taking? He hadn’t kissed John, John had kissed him. He had even tried to bring John back to his senses and John had continued. John had to know that Sherlock would give him anything, was this his way of giving something to Sherlock? 

Did he know that Sherlock would take anything John gave him before he was forced to give him back? 

Had John known this was what Sherlock thought might happen between the two had he not left?

Did John know Sherlock was truly and completely his?

He couldn’t have, why else would he torture Sherlock like this. 

Lips pressed against his neck and a low hum of pleasure fell from them. Sherlock wished they could have stayed connected forever. It was an irrational thought but he had it anyways. John disconnected them. Of course they couldn’t stay connected forever and how very telling of what was to come.

John slipped out of bed and Sherlock watched him walk away. Did John regret this? Probably.

Sherlock stayed where John had left him, unable to move from his shocked state. He had had John and now he was gone. History repeats itself… isn’t that the saying. 

“You okay?” 

Sherlock came back from his trance to see John staring down at him with nothing but concern. 

“Of course,” He smiled. He hoped John didn’t see the panic on his face, though it seemed he might have.

John ran a tissue over his stomach where his ejaculation landed. It was intimate and it made Sherlock feel as if someone had punched him in his solar plexus. When he’s cleaned John lies next to him.

“John,” He whispered.

“Mmmh?”

_I love you, don’t leave me, chose me, be mine, don’t ever go back to Mary, stay with me, I’ve always wanted you, always will, because it’s always been you and only you, don’t make me give you up again…_ “Thank you.”

“What?” John looked up from where his head is resting on Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock shrugged and John laughed. 

 

Switching the USB drive was easy.

Giving up John would ruin him.

 

 

 

 ---

 

 

 

John took the USB out from the drawer in his room.

He tossed it in his hand glaring at it, willing the information to enter his mind without having to be plugged into a computer.

The thought of learning what was on it made him nauseous. 

He placed it back next to his wedding ring in the drawer. 

 

 

\---

 

 

Sherlock made them tea and John eyed him suspiciously. 

“I swear if you drugged this,” John said sniffing the liquid.

“Really John, like I’d be so stupid to repeat myself,” He retorted.

John laughed and leaned forward brushing his lips across Sherlock’s.

The pain of loss was felt so deeply in Sherlock’s soul that he made an outward whimper. John pulled back and eyed him cautiously. Before he could catch anything, Sherlock leaned back in to kiss him. 

 

\---

 

Being able to touch Sherlock so freely was like a weight being lifted off his shoulders. How long John had wished he could do this. Run his hand down his back. Trace the outline of his skin. Press his lips to his neck. It all felt incredibly easy, like he had been doing it his whole life. 

The touching and the kissing and the sex didn’t seem to make the sadness of longing leave Sherlock’s eyes though. Maybe it was because he was still in shock in the light of their new relationship.

John wondered. 

Every time he kissed Sherlock, he wondered if it would make the sadness leave those eyes. 

 

 

\---

 

 

“I got it,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Got what?” John asked looking up from the newspaper.

Sherlock didn’t answer him. He had his back to John, his eyes fixed on the wall full of notes, obviously in deep concentration. 

It was times like these where John was full of conflict. He wanted to help Sherlock, but he still wasn’t sure he wanted to help Mary. It was so hard to forgive her for lying to him, yet he couldn’t will himself to look at the truth that lay inside that small metal USB drive. 

He didn’t want those years of his life to be a lie. Yet it had been born in one. The more he thought about it, the more he felt that he had used her as much as she had used him. She was a way of escape, a way to forget Sherlock, and it had worked. Maybe that was what he had been for her as well; a way to escape her past. In so many ways they both used each other to start over. 

But there was one question circling in his mind: _Was any of it real?_

Sherlock turned to John with a hint of excitement in his eyes. 

“What is it,” John asked.

He knew that look too well. It was the “I’ve figured something out because I’m brilliant” look.

Sherlock didn’t say anything. Instead he strode over to John, placed his hands on his face, and brought him in for a kiss. John didn’t mind that he hadn’t answered him, not when Sherlock kissed him like that.

Sherlock climbed into his lap, straddling his legs and kissing him in earnest. They moaned into each other’s mouths while Sherlock rolled his hips over John. 

 

When they had been drunk during his stag night, this was what he thought would happen. They had been so touchy and flirty, and he could have sworn Sherlock had grabbed his arse when they had leaned into each other while walking back to the flat. It wasn’t that he wanted to cheat on Mary, it was more of a, well if it happens it happens, type thing. A last hoorah between the two, but instead they had been interrupted by a case, and the next day John had been glad, now, he wished they had, because maybe he wouldn’t have married her. 

“I want to ride you,” Sherlock said in a low sultry voice. 

“Fuck, yes,” John gasped.

Sherlock got up and went back to his bedroom to retrieve the lube while John got undressed. Sherlock came back holding the lube completely naked. He tossed it to John and resumed where he had been a minute before. John coated his fingers before reaching around and tracing from the start of Sherlock’s crack down to the puckered hole. He rubbed circles around it before he pressed in, earning him a breathy moan from Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s hips rolled as he pressed down into John’s finger and bit his lip to contain his moans. John pressed another finger in and Sherlock began fucking himself against them.

“Sherlock, fuck that’s hot,” John groaned. 

“More,” Sherlock panted and John obliged, adding another finger. 

Sherlock moved up and down on his fingers moaning wanton and open.

John withdrew his fingers and went to coat his cock with more lube, unable to wait any longer, while Sherlock positioned himself above him. He grabbed John’s cock and pressed it against his entrance sliding down slowly. John did as best as he could not to thrust up into the tight heat. He gripped Sherlock’s hips tightly and sucked in a sharp breath when Sherlock was fully seated on top of him. He leaned in and pressed soft kisses on Sherlock’s collar bone. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders and started moving up and down. John’s head fell back and he closed his eyes to the glorious feeling.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, “Look at me.”

John’s eyes snapped open and what he saw was a disheveled Sherlock with messy curls, tinted cheeks, an open mouth, and sweat glistened. 

“Oh fuck, Sherlock,” John moaned, his cock twitching at the sight. 

Sherlock bit his lip mischievously and rolled his hips causing John to moan louder, then he did it again, and again, and they were both grunting and gasping.

“Touch me,” Sherlock begged. They placed their foreheads together breathing in the same air, their eyes locked.

John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock and stroked him, watching pleasure dance across Sherlock‘s ever changing eyes. He felt when Sherlock climaxed. He could feel Sherlock clenching around him and the twitch of his cock as he ejaculated against his stomach. John thrust up into Sherlock a few more times before his own orgasm washed over him and they slumped together on the chair. 

“Yours,” Sherlock whispered.

 

 

\---

 

 

It was getting harder for Sherlock to convince himself that Mary deserved John. Of course she didn’t deserve him, no one did, not even him.

He couldn’t get sidetracked now, he knew this might not end well, of course it wouldn’t end well, and because it wouldn’t, he has to get John and Mary back together, because the only way Sherlock could guarantee John’s happiness was to guarantee him a future.

He needed to stop having sex with John. 

He didn’t want to.

He needed to stop John from wanting to have sex with him. 

He didn’t want to. 

They haven’t brought up Mary by name since the first time they slept together, maybe that could be the start, show John that he still has a wife, a women who loves him and is carrying his child.

He has to.

That was his vow wasn’t it? The first and only one he made, to always be there for them.

“You need to talk to Mary,” Sherlock said into John’s chest.

They laid together in Sherlock’s bed wrapped around each other in post-coital bliss. Or at least it had been until Sherlock had brought up Mary and made John tense against him.

“I don’t need to do anything,” John said defiantly.

“You haven’t spoken to her since that night, no matter how mad you are at her you have to know that she was only trying to protect you,” Sherlock explained.

John huffed out a breath. Obviously John didn’t see it that way.

“You still love her,” Sherlock said in a soft voice, much softer than he wanted it to be.

“I don’t,” 

“Yes you do, you’re just angry,” 

“Of course I’m fucking angry,” John yelled.

Sherlock shifted away from him and onto his back. 

“Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re trying to get at. We just had sex and now you want me to talk to my ex-”

“You’re still married,” they hadn’t broken up, and they wouldn’t, Sherlock wouldn’t let them. He felt like the biggest hypocrite. Probably was.

“Yeah well maybe we shouldn’t be,” John said getting out of bed, “Why are you saying this?”

He couldn’t tell him yet, so he changed the subject.

“I don’t think you should read the USB”

“Why not,” 

“Because that’s not who she is anymore,” Sherlock said, prepping himself up on his elbows.

“That doesn’t change anything,” John said angrily.

“Doesn’t it?”

Because it did.

 

\---

 

 

 

Mycroft came for a visit. He knew everything with one glance. He continued with his business as if he didn’t and handed a file to Sherlock. Sherlock took it and eyed him suspiciously. That silence again, he knew that silence. Except it wasn’t silent as Mycroft left the flat with one word hanging in the air…

 

 

“Redbeard” 

 

 

\---

 

 

“I know how to stop him,” Sherlock said. 

He didn’t sound particularly happy about it like John expected him to be. Instead he looked up from his notes and into John’s eyes, searching him, reading him, memorizing him. 

Such sadness. 

“How?” John asked. He was scared of what Sherlock might say. He didn’t look too happy about how he’d have to go about this, so whatever he had planned couldn’t be too good. 

Sherlock looked back at his notes and didn’t tell John what he discovered. 

John was used to this by now. He stood up to make a cup of tea and made one for Sherlock as well just in case. 

He looked at the tea cups. They looked exactly like the one he had thrown against the door in anger. He didn’t feel angry anymore. He had felt angry for so long, but whatever Mary had done, that wasn’t her anymore, Sherlock saw that. 

But Sherlock also didn’t seem to grasp the concept that she had lied, betrayed his trust. He just saw that she was a puzzle. A case to be cracked, and apparently that made her worth it in Sherlock’s book. 

“Do you… do you care for Mary?” John asked, his eyes glued to the tea cups.

“Don’t you?” was his answer.

“I think so,” John sighed. 

“Glad you haven’t read the USB,” Sherlock said.

“Why don’t you want me to read it,” John looked up from the tea cups.

Sherlock shrugged.

“If it’s that bad, shouldn’t I have a right to know?”

“If you love her, you’ll save her from pain by never knowing,”

“I don‘t-” John’s breath caught, unable to finish the sentence. He looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes, “I love you.”

His chest felt constricted in his conflict. Mary. Sherlock. The baby. It was all too much.

“But you chose her,” Sherlock whispered it so low that he didn’t think Sherlock knew he heard him.

He went into his room and cried for the first time since this all started. 

 

 

\---

 

 

One drawer.

Two items.

One gold ring.

One USB drive.

John took the USB drive out of the drawer.

He had no urge to plug it into a computer.

He no longer felt betrayed.

She wasn’t betraying him, she was protecting him.

Sherlock saw that.

Now he did too.

He thinks about destroying it.

He puts it back in the drawer instead.

 

 

\--- 

 

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” John murmured as he pressed kisses across every inch of Sherlock’s body. 

He worshipped his body, loving the way he could make Sherlock gasp, or make his muscles spasm, or his cock twitch when he kissed around it. 

“John,” he would moan, and it was the best set of letters to every leave Sherlock’s mouth. 

“Take me, Sherlock,” John whispered against his ear, “Make me yours.”

Sherlock flipped them over, claiming John’s mouth, their bodies flush together, and he took. 

He turned John on his stomach and readied him, while John whimpered and moaned into a pillow, and then he took and took and took, pressing into John with a sigh and a word. 

Mine.

John gasped and moaned at the feeling of being filled by Sherlock. It was strange, and erotic, and complete ecstasy. One of his hands rested on the headboard, the other on Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s own hands were gripping his hips, and he leaned forward to kiss between John’s shoulder blades.

“Mine,” Sherlock grunted, and John said, “Yes.”

He moaned the word “yes” because it was the only word he could remember. He had never felt so good in his life, and then Sherlock was stroking his cock, and he was wrong, that was the best he had ever felt in his life. It felt beyond good, amazing, euphoric, and then he was coming, and everything went white. 

When he came back to life, Sherlock was collapsing against him and they lay there, with Sherlock resting on top of him. 

“Wow,” John breath.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. 

Sherlock sat up and cleaned them off while John drifted off.

Sherlock must have thought John was asleep because the last thing he heard before he drifted off into darkness was, “You could never be mine.”

 

 

\---

 

 

 

They didn’t make love again.

 

 

\---

 

 

 

“John,” it sounded defended, deluded, defeated. 

“Sherlock,” He replied.

“I can’t-” He looked away, gathering himself.

John watched him, never taking his eyes off Sherlock, he always had his eyes fixed on him.

Sherlock turned back to face him and smiled. John knew that smile. That was the smile Sherlock had reserved for everyone else, the fake one. It wasn’t the one he directed toward John. It wasn’t genuine.

“You know how much I admire you,”

_Defended_.

“As a friend,”

_Deluded._

“But that’s all we can be,”

_Defeated._

He should have seen this coming, is his first thought. Then he thinks back, and nothing makes sense. 

_Finally._

_Yours._

_You chose her._

_You could never be mine._

There is nothing but sadness in those eyes.

“Sherlock,” He whispered. It sounded broken and rough.

“John, you need to talk to Mary.” He heard.

He’s forgiven Mary, yes. He already decided he wasn’t going to look at the USB drive, not because he wanted to take her back, but because Sherlock had been right. That wasn’t who she was anymore. If he read the USB he’d taint everything they’d had together, she deserved a second chance. He wasn’t sure if they deserved a second chance though.

“I know,” John felt hallow when he said it.

“John,” it’s a question.

“I’m sorry,” John told him.

“Why?”

“I shouldn’t have-” He sucked in a breath, because no matter what he’s glad he did.

“We both knew it wouldn’t work out,” Sherlock smiled. It looked sad. 

“Did we?” John asked and smiled back. He didn’t feel happy.

Sherlock hid his emotions through laughter and jokes, so John does too. 

 

 

\---

 

 

The conversation ended what should have never started. John wasn’t his to have, so he had to give him back. He can tell John wants to ask why and get the real answer, but at the same time he knows John will never bring it up again. John is not one to beg. They are similar in that way.

He told John that Mary would be at Christmas, he didn’t tell him that he made a deal with the devil months back. He didn’t tell him that they’re not going to be celebrating Christmas in the traditional sense. He didn’t tell John that everything he’s done ever since he came back from the dead was for him. He didn’t tell him. He can’t tell him. 

He also thinks John already knows.

At least on some level.

Sherlock doesn’t know if he’s being selfish or selfless… he never does. 

 

\---

 

For a long time John thought of Sherlock and Mary as hurricanes, forces of nature that couldn’t be stopped and were out to destroy everything in their paths. John now realizes that it was never them who destroyed and conquered and killed and lived, it was him. He was the hurricane that destroyed the path, he was the hurricane that searched out destruction. It was him, and him alone. 

He’s not angry anymore. 

He realizes it’s not Sherlock or Mary who destroyed him, but himself. 

 

\---

 

It took three weeks, two visits to the physiatrist, a long talk with Sherlock, and a walk around Regents Park for him to make up his mind. 

 

Come Christmas he takes back Mary. 

 

Come Christmas he loses Sherlock.

 

\---

 

 

Sherlock took a long look at John and in the five seconds he spared to memorize his friend he sees all the reasons he should go through with his newest plan. Everything was white noise to what he was seeing in his head, like a movie montage of their time together, and he knew that a life without John was not a life worth living. A life where John suffered was not worth living. 

John was worth everything. 

So Sherlock risked it all.

He grabbed the gun, screamed something dramatic, and shot that disgusting monster called Magnusson between the eyes and he didn’t feel anything but relief. 

John was safe now.

That was all that mattered. 

 

 

\---

 

John understood and he wished he didn’t. 

They’re standing in front of the airplane and he can’t think of a word to say. 

_Say something, say anything_ , but nothing comes out, and the last thing he does with the person that gave him everything is shake his hand. 

He wants to say, _this is why, this is why you ended it with me, this is why you wanted me to get back with Mary, this is why. I’m not worth this. I was never worth your friendship. I was never worth your love. You saved me. You saved me when we first met, and you continued to save me until you left. Don’t leave._

He left…

 

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But not for long.

 


End file.
